The Weight of Unspoken Things
They had begun living like strangers who happened to share an address. The condo no longer felt like a home but like a waiting room—two people occupying the same space, careful not to collide too deeply. Words were measured. Glances were brief. Even silence had texture now, heavy and alert, as though it were listening. Maya tried. She truly did. She woke early despite the heaviness in her limbs and made sure Calvin’s shirts were ironed, his breakfast prepared even when she could barely swallow her own food. She asked about his day with genuine interest. She listened when he spoke about work, about deadlines, about people she had never met. She offered warmth where she could, kindness where it was deserved, and patience even when it was not returned. But her efforts dissolved against his
- Writer
